


And Servant I Shall Be

by OldWomanJosie



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Self-Indulgent, definitely sex, not well written sex but sex, oh well, probably sacreligious, sex and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 20:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15648111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldWomanJosie/pseuds/OldWomanJosie
Summary: The adrenaline of law making was nothing to the adrenaline of law breaking and Paul's blood sang with it even hours later after the shooting and sirens were done. He needed it.





	And Servant I Shall Be

_In nomine Patri, et Fili, et Spiritus Sanctus_

Paul shut his eyes against the shots and ground the heel of his hand against the front of his pants. God, but he was hard. After three months, all it took was the sound of the words to set him off. Going to mass, when the brothers dragged him along, was torture. But there would be time enough to take care of that tonight, when they were home safe and the boys had time to work him over.

The extraction was a blur, the aftermath a practiced dance that was routine and yet never got old. The adrenaline of law making was nothing to the adrenaline of law breaking and Paul's blood sang with it even hours later after the shooting and sirens were done. It was quiet now, in the dark hours, but his hands were shaking and he had a hard-on that wouldn't quit. He needed it.

Paul had always been the dominant one in relationships, using his power and attitude to shore up his insecurities. If he acted like he didn't care, then no one could use that care against him. All his life he had been looking for something to actually care about, someone. And now here he had it, two someones whose mission he supported with all his mind and strength.

With all his body.

He offered up his body to them, a willing sacrifice as he had never let any use him before. Here at last was someone worthy of his submission and they had it, all of it. He was laid open on his knees before them, openly wanting as they conferred briefly on what was to be done.

Murphy was the easy one. Murphy, with no inhibitions and fire in his bones had jumped at the chance to release his energies on one willing. It was no matter who, honestly, and the naked want in Paul's eyes made it that much the better. When Paul had first broached the subject, it took almost no prompting for Murphy to take his fists to him, and only a little more to get his cock involved.

It was no secret to anyone that Connor would do anything for his little brother. They shared everything; money, guns, beds when they had to, and playthings even when they didn't. It wasn't a stretch to call Paul a possession of the Saints, bound now to their mission and to whatever whims they called forth. Theirs to use as they willed, and if Murph wanted someone to throw around, Connor would throw in too.

Paul was a proud man. He took pride in what his body could endure, the things he could offer up to the MacManus brothers as a physical offering beyond the resources his job placed at their disposal. _This is my body, broken for you,_ he thought wildly as the two turned and fixed him with twin predatory stares.

Murphy moved on him first, tearing Paul's shirt and jacket open and shoving them down his arms. The fabric pulled tight, pinning his arms behind him. Paul forced himself to keep his eyes open, to not shy away from-

And there it was, fists to ribs, palm to cheek, blood to his mouth. To almost anyone the beating would seem out of control; Murphy's choked noises of excitement and rage and Connor's flying hands too fast to be contained. But nothing broke, only bruised and bloody under their hands. No, the MacManus brothers never broke a useful thing.

One leather-gloved hand folded over Paul's mouth and Connor pressed a kiss against the back of his hand. Paul's lips moved against his gloved palm. He had never asked for a kiss, never wanted one, but Connor rewarded good behavior with gentleness after the rage. And Paul was good, he was so fucking good for them. He never screamed, only made the small sounds of pain that he knew made Murphy that much more excited.

"Be good," came a murmur against his ear and Paul did close his eyes then. He fought the urge to lean into Connor's touch and instead steeled himself for Murphy's last onslaught.

Connor was a prude; or at least, a good Catholic boy. He never touched Paul except to beat him and would not use him to fuck. Murphy, on the other hand, was young and had no qualms about getting what he needed. He forced Paul forward onto his hands and knees and tore at his pants, eager for his prize.

And oh, but Paul had learned to crave being fucked this way. He had never allowed it before, never let any man into him like this. To do so would be too weak in his eyes. No one was worthy of seeing that side of him.

But with Murphy he had little choice and in a way that made it easier. The younger brother spat into his hand and stroked himself before shoving into Paul's body with little grace. Paul jerked at the sudden shock and Connor held him still, wrapping him in a crushing grip with one hand still over his mouth. 

Paul gasped for breath as Murphy fucked the day's adrenaline from his system. The punishing thrusts pushed all thought from Paul's head except the thought that this was what he had been missing, that somehow, now, he was made whole in the breaking.

Murphy pulled out and Paul whined at the sudden emptiness. He knew what came next and knew it was his favorite part, but the loss still pained him in more ways than one. Connor left his side and for one shocking second Paul was adrift alone in the dark. Brutalized and gasping on his knees, he swayed with no touch to moor him.

Then he looked up. Above him, both brothers stood, hands on cocks, ready to anoint him to their holy task. Paul couldn't help but think that this was the reverse of what every scumbag mobster must see before they died; except instead of staring down the barrel of his death, Paul was staring down the barrel of a new life.

They would never say the words over this profane act and they would beat him in earnest if they knew he dared to even think that sacred prayer in this hour, but still the words rang in his head as they finished over his face and down his bruised throat:

_For thee, my lord, for thee._


End file.
